


It's a Not-So-Wonderful Life

by AmyPond45



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, Mark of Cain, Sam Saves Dean, Spoilers for Season 9, Wincest - Freeform, established wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyPond45/pseuds/AmyPond45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has finally given in to the Mark of Cain and become a monster. Gabriel gives Sam a chance to save him, but only by erasing himself from Dean's life. What would Dean's life be like if Sam had never existed? Without Sam, Dean gets the apple-pie life Sam always wished he could have, never knowing what his brother sacrificed. Until the day that something supernatural happens, and Dean's happy, normal life encounters a snag or two in the form of a tall, dark-haired stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Given the events slowly unfolding in Season 9, I needed Sam to save Dean, and this is what I came up with. Please comment!

"There is another way."

"What? What other way? What the hell does that mean?"

They were in the bunker, and Sam was in the middle of researching the Mark of Cain, trying to get any sense of what was happening to Dean. Because whatever it was, it was really, really bad. Dean had disappeared again, and this time Sam knew he was lying when he said he had a lead on Abbadon. Sam had a bad feeling that Dean was just out drinking again, probably killing somebody. With gusto. So when Gabriel suddenly showed up out of the blue with an offer Sam was beginning to think he couldn't refuse, he was feeling pretty desperate. Pretty much ready for anything that would stop what was happening to Dean.

And once Sam got over his shock at seeing the archangel alive and in the bunker, and Gabriel informed him that Dean was on the edge of something so bad that he -- Gabriel -- had been sent to kill him, well, that's when Gabriel offered an alternative, and Sam listened, eyes widening.

"You could do that?" he demanded.

Gabriel gave a short nod.

"For him, it would be like you never existed."

"So I would just be -- dead?"

Gabriel's face contorted as he shifted, rolling his shoulders and squinting a little.

"Not exactly," he admitted finally. "You'd be there, and you'd be you, but he just wouldn't know you. Never knew you."

"So it's like Lisa and Ben, except in reverse," Sam clarified.

"Sorta. Kinda. Not exactly." Gabriel admitted. "More like It's a Wonderful Life without the happy ending."

"But if I never existed, things would be better for Dean," Sam insisted. "Mom would be alive. He'd have a normal childhood, never even go into hunting."

Sam was rambling, his mind playing over their life, all the ways his not being there would change things.

"Never save all those people, never stop the apocalypse..." Gabriel nodded, adding his own spin.

"Never start the damn apocalypse in the first place," Sam growled, clenching his fists. "No Heaven or Hell or angels at all. No you."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," Gabriel chuckled. "I'd still be here, playing around, having my way with humanity as I've been doing for millenia. He just wouldn't know it."

"No Castiel," Sam breathed.

"Yeah, that one I can see," Gabriel nodded. "Cas probably wouldn't have much reason to visit Earth, good little soldier that he always was before he met you two."

Sam took a deep, shaky breath, processing.

"But you say I would still be here, not dead. So what -- I'd be some kind of ghost?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Your soul's destiny is part of a plan even I don't have access to," Gabriel admitted. "High-level stuff. Word is upstairs, somebody even higher up than Michael -- than all the archangels -- wants you in the world somehow, somewhere. And it's not all about the apocalypse, like we used to think. This is your life, Sam Winchester, and it's a big fat dumb mystery story. And the crazy thing is, see, me being able to offer this to you -- this opportunity to erase yourself from your brother's life -- that seems to be part of it. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to do it."

Sam shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Hey, that's the point, genius!" Gabriel agreed. "That's why it's a mystery! Get it?"

Sam took a deep breath.

"And this stops the whole Mark of Cain thing?" he asked. "No more dark, evil-doing killer Dean?"

"Well, obviously," Gabriel rolled his eyes. "That's the whole point, isn't it? You're saving him from turning into a Knight of Hell, or whatever that Mark is making him do. Saving him from all the evil it's gonna make him do."

"And what about Abbadon?" Sam pondered. "If I do this, how do we stop her?"

"'We' don't do anything, Sammy boy," Gabriel reminded him. "If you do this, your brother won't even know who Abbadon is. Saving the world will be all up to you and you alone. If there is an Abbadon in that other reality. No guarantee one way or the other."

"And Crowley and Metatron -- "

Gabriel made another exasperated sound. "Listen Big Boy, I'm only gonna say it one more time. No more you means no more all the stuff you did in this world. So my guess is, no more open gates of Hell, which means no Crowley. No more angels, so no Metatron.

"But hey, what do I know? Could be things are worse here without you. Could be if you never existed, the world would be worse off. Maybe you're just like good ol' George Bailey after all."

Sam felt his face pinch into an expression of dread and doubt, and Gabriel smiled, almost sympathetically,

"But I don't think so, either, Sam. Sorry. So it's all up to you. What's it gonna be? All this?" Gabriel spread his arms wide, gesturing at the empty bunker, with its empty rooms now that Dean was off killing things somewhere and drinking himself to death, not having been home in more than a week. "Or no more you?"

This time Sam didn't hesitate.

"Let's do it," he said firmly.

Gabriel grinned, lifting his hand to snap his fingers.

"OK, Sam. I guess this is goodbye, then. And I'd add 'good luck,' but that seems like a pretty useless wish in your case. So we'll just leave it at a simple adios, amigo!"

As the archangel snapped his fingers and disappeared, Sam had a last thought.

"Wait! Will I remember anything?" he said to empty air, but Gabriel was already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

At first, nothing changed.

Sam was still alone in the library of the bunker, staring around and waiting for the inevitable feeling of vertigo that came with angel-powered reality shifts.

After another minute he called out.

"Uh, Gabriel? Nothing's happening. Hey!"

The silence in the bunker was unnerving and somehow deeper than it should be, so after waiting another moment Sam huffed out a disgusted breath.

"Figures," he muttered to himself. "Stupid angel can't even end it right."

Sam couldn't help feeling sorry for himself. Everything he tried to do turned out wrong, even this. No reason to expect Gabriel could really come through on his promise in the first place. It was always Sam's luck to just fail at everything he tried. Why did he expect this would be any different?

OK, then. Sam took a deep breath. Time to get back to work.

He pulled his phone out, hit Dean's number to check in as he usually did once every couple of hours.

Strangely, the number had been disconnected.

OK, he thought idly, slipping into the chair at his desk and reaching for his laptop, punching in the speed dial for Dean's other cell.

That one was also disconnected.

Sam stared at the phone for a minute, frowning.

What the hell?

He punched in another of Dean's numbers, got an old lady in Florida, hung up. Tried two or three other, older numbers that he was pretty sure Dean no longer used but just in case --

Every time, he got no Dean.

OK, this was getting weird.

Unless --

Sam got to his feet, heart pounding, charged down the hallway to Dean's bedroom, flung open the door.

The room was empty. No guns on the walls, no picture of Mary Winchester on the nightstand, no neat little pile of Busty Asian Beauties under the bed.

It was like Dean had never lived here.

What the hell?

"Gabriel, what the hell?" Sam muttered, more to himself than out of any hope that the archangel could hear him.

Feeling panic beginning to well up in his chest, Sam stomped back down the hall to the kitchen. There was no sign of Dean here either -- no specialty cooking gadgets, no pie in the fridge, no whiskey in the cabinets. In fact, judging by the half-case of beer in the hall and the moldy bread and half-eaten jar of peanut-butter in the cupboard, no one but Sam had lived here for a very long time. Dirty dishes in the sink -- ok, Sam was sloppy but Dean would never leave that kind of mess for more than a week, and that looked like it had been here for months. Yuck.

Again, what the hell?

Sam checked the garage, the bathroom -- again, lack of Impala, abundance of dust where it was usually parked, no sign of anyone but Sam and his usual mess in the bathroom -- no fancy hair products -- Dean would never leave all those towels all over the floor like that -- 

Sam was becoming seriously freaked out.

A quick check of the internet revealed no Supernatural novels, no death record for Dean Winchester. No court records for Dean either, although his birth record was there, census records, driver's license --

Wait, how could Dean be living in Lawrence, Kansas in 2010?

Census records indicated a Dean and Emily Winchester lived at -- 

Sam gasped. The address was their old house in Lawrence. How could that be? Unless --

Oh God.

Also living at the same address was a Samuel J. Winchester, aged 1.


	3. Chapter 3

It took Sam over a week to assess the situation. Dean and his wife and son lived in the house where Dean had lived as a child, the only son of Mary and John Winchester, recently deceased. Dean's occupation was listed as EMT, a job title that pleased Sam more than it should have, once he got over the initial shock of discovery and realized that Gabriel's power had really worked. So Dean had become a firefighter after all. Searching records revealed that there had been a fire in his house as a child. A baby brother had died.

So Dean had lived his life atoning for the loss of a sibling he couldn't save.

No surprise there, but at least the cause of the fire was listed as accidental. The electrical system in the house had malfunctioned, and the fire had started in the attic, right above the nursery. By the time the parents discovered it, the entire room was involved.

After the fire, the family had moved, but Dean had later married and moved his own family back to the home.

Strange choice, Sam considered, an eery tingling creeping up his spine. Normally, people who survived a fire where a family member died moved as far as possible from the scene of the tragedy, instinctively avoiding any residual energy from the lost loved one, which was why hauntings weren't more common than they were. If more people stayed where the ghosts of their loved ones lingered, ghost-hunting would be a much more common profession.

Which begged the question, why had Dean moved back there?

* *  
The question nagged Sam for the next several weeks, as he went about his business, hunting and researching mostly run-of-the-mill hauntings and monster-sightings. Working without a partner was tricky, more dangerous, but it suited his need for self-punishment, and for awhile it was enough just to solve a few cases and save a few people.

And he was determined to leave his brother alone, let him have his life without Sam as he had hoped he would have.

Nevertheless, he couldn't help checking in on Dean, reading the local paper, following the police dispatches for Lawrence for any mention of rescue missions which might mention Dean by name.

And there were quite a few. Dean was good at his job, and not just getting cats out of trees and patching up kids who got hit by fly balls on the playground. He had assisted with serious situations, helped people out of burning buildings, cut people out of mangled car accidents, in one case talked down a deranged gunman in a school classroom -- the man was a decorated hero, which shouldn't have surprised Sam, but made his chest fill with pride anyway.

That was the Dean he knew growing up, Sam thought to himself. The big brother who could do anything. The brother he assumed would do great things, just because he was Sam's personal hero and he assumed he was everybody else's too.

Then Dean's parents had been killed, just last year, in a plane crash on their way to catch a cruise ship out of Miami, where they were planning to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary.

That had made the paper because of what had happened just a few months later, when tragedy had struck the Winchester family again.

Emily Winchester had been hit by a truck on her way home from work at the local preschool. Killed outright, she hadn't suffered, which was a blessing. She left her husband of ten years, Dean Winchester, and their five-year-old son, Sam.

Tragedy seemed to follow Dean Winchester around, the newspaper noted, reminding readers of the fiery death of Dean's baby brother back in 1983, in the same house where Dean and his family had lived for the past five years.

Almost seemed like a curse, the article noted.

Sam had to read that last line twice, then forced himself to think rationally, as if this were another case of possible supernatural phenomena.

Because really, what were the chances that one man would lose his brother, his parents, and his wife -- the first in the house that he had moved back to after twenty-five years, and the last three after moving back there?

It did seem a little unusual. Even normal people seemed to think there might be something supernatural going on.

And if Sam didn't know any better, he'd guess there was a vengeful spirit at work here.  


Only that would mean that the vengeful spirit was in the house.

Suddenly, Sam knew he where his next case would be.

* *  
It was a beautiful, sunny day in Lawrence. Children were out on their bikes, neighbors were cutting their lawns. When Sam pulled up outside the old Winchester family home, he sat quietly for a few moments, just imagining what it must have been like for Dean to live here.

Then he saw him.

Little dark-haired child on a big-wheels, pumping the wheels hard up and down the driveway next to the familiar shape of the sleek black Chevy.

Dean's car.

Sam sat and watched the boy for another minute or two, watched him pump his little legs vigorously, serious, focused expression on his little face.

Then the front door of the house opened and Dean came out.

Sam sucked in a breath, involuntarily clutching the steering wheel, feeling his whole body go tense and break out in a cold sweat. Dean was wearing a tee-shirt and jeans -- looked fit and healthy, if a little thin, and was wearing gloves and carrying a pair of gigantic gardening shears, which made Sam choke back a laugh. The thought of Dean gardening was sending all kinds of signals through his system, mostly pleasant, he realized with a start of surprise.

Sam watched as Dean started shearing some of the shrubs along the front of the house, yelled something to his son -- his son! -- about staying out of the street, threw a glance toward Sam, who was parked across the street but obvious and in sight, and suddenly Sam realized how vulnerable he was, how visible.

Sam's instincts told him to behave normally, to reassure this father that his son was safe with the strange man sitting in a parked car right across the street -- of course the father would notice that and come out of the house with gardening shears! -- and Sam waved to the dad as he got out of his car, trying to stay hunched over so his height and bulk wouldn't seem too threatening.

"Hey," he called to Dean. "I -- I'm new in the neighborhood."

Sam put his hand out as he crossed the street, smiling his most reassuring smile as Dean watched him warily, clutching the shears like a blade, albeit pointed downward.

"Name's Sam," Sam said. "Sam -- Colt."

The name slipped out before he could think, before he could take it back.

Because it was such a goddamn stupid fake name. How did it come out so easily?

But Dean was already smiling, relaxing as he took Sam's hand.

"Colt, huh?" he grinned up at Sam as Sam struggled to hold onto his composure in the face of that beautiful smile, that warm grip. "Well, that's a funny thing, 'cause my name's Winchester. Dean Winchester."

Sam felt his face heat, felt his grin spread from ear to ear, had to lower his gaze.

"Wow," he tried for surprise, worried that Dean could see through it. "That's amazing. What are the chances?"

Sam flicked his gaze back up to Dean face, watched as the mesmerizing green eyes held his for another minute, then faltered as Dean's cheeks reddened. He suddenly realized he was still holding Dean's hand, so he drew back, looked away, cleared his throat.

"So what brings you to Lawrence, Sam?"

"Uh -- the university, actually," Sam was more overwhelmed by Dean's presence than he had expected to be, and it took a lot of concentration to focus. "I'm thinking about going back to school."

Dean nodded. "Good school," he commented, then seemed to notice something on Sam's neck. One of his old scars, probably. "You serve?" he asked, surprising Sam again.

How was his PTSD so obvious?

Sam nodded briefly. "Two tours," he answered, always the easiest answer when he got outted as a combatant, never exactly sure how it was he gave it away so easily. But that meant --

"You?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded.

"Two tours in Afghanistan," he revealed. "Right out of high school."

They exchanged unit information and Sam could see Dean visibly relax, his willingness to trust a fellow soldier obvious in a way that made Sam feel a little guilty.

Until the sound of buzzing and plastic wheels crunching and rattling somewhere near his ankles reminded him of the youngest Winchester, who had rounded the rear end of the Impala and was now making a beeline for his father.

"Hey," Sam smiled down at the little guy as he stopped his vehicle less than a foot away, staring from his dad to the strange, tall man on his sidewalk, standing directly in his path. "How's it going?"

"This is my son, Sam," Dean said, gazing fondly at the little boy, then frowning slightly. "Sam, this is Mr. Colt. He has the same name as you. What do you think about that?"

The little boy looked up at his uncle -- Uncle Sam, what do you know? -- and Sam tried to smile, tried to seem as small and non-threatening as possible, but the little guy did not look convinced. He didn't smile, just stared hard at Sam for a minute before turning his big wheels around again and buzzing off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

Dean stared after him, smile gone now, eyes distant. He turned back to Sam after a minute, but Sam had seen the pain there, the grief. It made him wince inside, and he had to struggle to contain the urge to express comfort to this man who was no longer his brother.

"He lost his mom a few months ago," Dean explained, seemed to need to make an excuse for his son's asocial behavior. And the way he put it, the loss put off on the little boy, nothing about the fact that this was Dean's loss too, that the lost person had in fact been Dean's wife -- it was so Dean, so familiar, that it brought tears to Sam's eyes, and he had to struggle to keep them from falling.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said quietly, and Dean looked up at him sharply.

"She wasn't my wife," he said. "Emily and I have been separated almost two years now."

Sam was surprised. Not that it made her death any easier, but somehow Dean's life had been full of more loss than Sam had imagined.

"What about you?" Dean asked. "You have family in the area?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. How had the conversation turned so personal all of a sudden?

"Uh, no," he answered. "I grew up in Texas. San Antonio. My folks passed away a while back. Nobody else."

"So we're both orphans," Dean commented. "My folks are gone too."

"Huh," Sam nodded, feeling awkward again. Dean was looking at him, in fact had been looking at him a lot, and Sam was beginning to wonder if there was something he was missing.

"Hey, you want a beer?" Dean asked suddenly. "I'm just about to knock off for the day. Yard work is good exercise but it's a little boring, ya know?"

Sam had the feeling he should refuse, should claim he needed to get back. But instead he found himself accepting, found himself sitting on the front step next to Dean with a beer in his hand, rubbing shoulders and listening as Dean talked about his life, his job, his son.

And when an hour had passed and Sam knew he really should be going, Dean asked him to stay for dinner, insisting when Sam half-heartedly protested, so that within the hour he found himself in the kitchen, making a salad while Dean grilled burgers, watched solemnly and silently by the pint-sized version of Sam who sat quietly on the floor, playing with little plastic army men until Dean told him to wash up for supper.

And afterwards, helping Dean clean up, Dean brushed up against him a couple of times and Sam had the feeling that was not accidental, but it felt so good he ignored it, let it happen and assumed it was just Dean being Dean because really, what else could it be?

But then it was time for Junior to go to bed, and there really was no reasonable excuse for Sam to stay another minute. Except that Dean was protesting again, asking him to hang out while he put his son to bed, and Sam kept shaking his head because at this point he knew he was crossing a line, knew Dean must see that his desire to be near him was beyond the bounds of simple neighborly friendliness.

And that was when Dean put his hand on Sam's wrist, making him look up, startled, straight into Dean's beautiful eyes, where he could see the heat and the intensity there, unmistakable, and Dean said, "Stay. Please."

So he did, heart pounding and palms sweating as he waited for Dean to put his son to bed, drinking another beer to steady his nerves.

He was checking out Dean's vinyl record collection -- all classic rock albums, why wasn't he surprised? -- so he didn't hear Dean enter the room till he was suddenly right behind him, making Sam jump, and he was glad he'd already put his beer down because otherwise he would have dropped it. And Dean was right there, so close Sam could feel his heat, and Dean was just looking at him with those eyes like clear pools of tropical ocean -- warm and wet and deepest, bottomless green --

Sam realized he was holding his breath, so he let it out slowly, through parted lips, his tongue unconsciously flicking out to lick his lips, and Dean's eyes lowered to his mouth and Sam was just lost. He leaned toward Dean without even thinking about it, and in the split second before the inevitable happened, Dean's eyes flicked back up to Sam's and they were full of confusion and uncertainty and Sam felt himself smiling his reassurance, letting his dimples show and Dean was relaxing, leaning in, filling Sam's vision so he had to close his eyes, overwhelmed by Dean's nearness after all these months of being away from him, starving for him.

"I'm not gay," Dean whispered, his breath ghosting across Sam's cheek.

Sam shook his head a little, keeping his eyes closed and his face tipped down, afraid to move.

"Neither am I," he whispered back.

"So why -- what's happening?"

Sam was holding his breath again, his body clenched, so it took a minute to register that Dean was touching him, warm, calloused hands on his face, fingers slipping into his hair, gentle and exploring and so, so careful, like he was afraid Sam would break. Or disappear.

Sam held himself perfectly still, even as Dean's thumb skimmed over his lips, even as Dean tilted his face so he could get the angle right, even as Dean's lips finally -- finally! -- pressed against his -- soft, tentative, parted just enough to pull Sam's top lip between them.

When he felt Dean's tongue dart out to taste Sam's lip Sam shuddered, kissing back as carefully as he could, just enough to let Dean feel him sucking lightly on his full, luscious bottom lip, licking his tongue along the seam where their mouths met.

Sam felt Dean's answering shudder, heard the low moan in his throat, felt it against his lips in the second before Dean pulled away, leaning his head back to look up at Sam. Sam's eyes fluttered open then, hyper-aware of Dean's hands on the back of his neck, sliding down his shoulders and around his back, pulling him in.

And Sam wasn't sure when he'd slid his arms around the other man, but somehow they were hugging, bodies pressed together as intimately as they ever had been, familiar and warm and oh thank God -- to have Dean in his arms again! Dean's chin on his shoulder, Sam stooped just enough to bury his face in Dean's neck, pressing his lips into the warm skin, breathing in Dean's familiar smell.

It might have been hours. It might have been only a minute or two. But when Dean finally drew back Sam followed, unconsciously needing to pull him in again, angling his face towards Dean to re-capture his mouth.

"No," Dean put one hand firmly against Sam's chest, pushing against him, putting distance between them, and every fiber of Sam's being screamed Yes! -- needing the contact like air or food or water -- just needing Dean, blinking in confusion as Dean pushed him away, held him firmly at arm's length, his face set.

It took Sam a minute to adjust, but then he recovered, stepped back, letting Dean set the pace again.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to -- to come on to you like that."

Dean lifted his eyebrows. "I came on to you," he said, surprise lighting his eyes. "I've never done that before. No," as Sam's face must have registered his own surprise. "I haven't. I don't understand why you seem so -- so familiar. It's like we've done this before. It seemed like what we always do."

Sam pressed his lips together, looked away, unable to meet Dean's eyes.

"I'm not gay," Dean said again, a little dazedly.

"No, I know," Sam agreed. "Neither am I. It -- it's ok. I think we -- I think we just have to take it slow."

"Yeah," Dean seemed relieved. "I mean, it's not like I want to sleep with you or anything."

Sam lifted his eyes, meeting Dean's confused gaze for a minute, then lowering his eyes as he felt the heat rush to his cheeks, his groin.

"Right," he agreed, shifting uncomfortably to ease the ache in his jeans. "Absolutely. Me neither."

"Ok then," Dean nodded, his voice shaking a little. "How 'bout another beer?"

"Nah, I think I'm ok," Sam said. "I really should go."

Dean was silent, so that Sam had to look up, face the devastated expression in the other man's eyes.

Oh God. He couldn't do it. He couldn't.

"You -- you have a girlfriend," Dean stated. "You have somebody."

Sam hesitated. That would work. He could lie, put an end to this right now.

Except he couldn't.

Shaking his head, Sam took a deep breath, ran his hands through his hair, just getting a grip.

Because really, what the hell was he doing?

"No," he breathed out. "Nobody. Not for a long time."

The relief on Dean's face was classic, which only made Sam feel guiltier, of course. Damn.

"Ok, well, that's settled, then," Dean said, huffing out a breath and shifting a little so that Sam knew he was just as hard as Sam.

Damn.

"So, you got a place to stay?" Dean went on.

And Sam could hear the offer, knew he was powerless to refuse.

But he was saved from answering by a blood curdling scream from upstairs, from the little boy's room.

Dean and Sam exchanged a quick glance -- communicating silently as they always had --- before Dean was bounding up the stairs with Sam right behind him.

As they reached the child's door there was another scream, followed by a loud bang, as if something heavy was being thrown against the wall.

"Sam!" Dean bellowed, grabbing the door handle, finding it locked. The child screamed again, and Dean wedged his shoulder against the door and pushed, and when the door didn't budge he backed up and gave a swift, hard kick to the lock, breaking it easily and bursting into the room, Sam on his heels.

The room was in chaos. Toys and clothes strewn all over the floor, furniture upturned, books flying into walls. Dean dodged a flying lamp as he rushed across the room to gather his son into his arms, the boy still huddled in his bed with his knees pulled up to his chin, a look of wild-eyed terror on his face. With the little boy safely in his arms, Dean charged back out of the room, down the stairs and out the front door. Sam hesitated only a moment -- the hunter in him needing to do something, kill something, stop whatever it was that was happening -- before following his brother and nephew out the front door.

But not before he noticed the temperature drop in the boy's room. Definitely a vengeful spirit of some kind.

Dean was bundling his son into the backseat of the car, all business and swift, self-confident movements.

"It's all right, Sam," he assured the boy. "I've got you. You're ok."

Sam watched them from the front lawn, then looked back up at the sound of glass shattering in the upstairs window. The boy's room. Spirit still venting.

Dean looked up, caught Sam's eye, and Sam knew. This wasn't new. This had happened before.

But of course Dean didn't know that Sam understood ghosts; Sam could see the desperation in Dean's face which could only mean that Dean was afraid this was scaring Sam away.

The house was quiet now; the broken window seemed to take some wind out of the thing's sails, and the only sound was the quiet crying of Dean's little son and Dean's quiet, rumbling reassurances.

Sam put his hands on his waist and shifted his stance, going for something light as he said, "Looks like you've got a poltergeist."

Dean looked up sharply, frowning, clearly expecting Sam to be laughing, or freaked out. Maybe both. When he saw Sam looking back with sympathy and sincerity instead, Dean relaxed visibly and shook his head.

"I don't know what it is," he admitted. "It's been happening for awhile. Missouri thinks it's partly vengeful spirit, part something else."

Sam was so surprised to hear his brother talking about the supernatural in such frank terms, it took him a minute to register the reference to the old psychic their dad had consulted all those years ago.

"Wait -- " he said finally. "You have Missouri Mosely helping you with this?"

Dean looked up again, surprised.

"You know her?" he asked.

Sam gave a shrug. "Well, yeah," he admitted. "She's pretty famous, I guess. Really knows her stuff."

Little Sam's whimpers had quieted finally; he had obviously fallen asleep. Dean climbed back out of the back seat of the car and shut the door as quietly as he could.

"I'm gonna take him to my sister's," he said to Sam, who suddenly felt all the air rush out of his lungs. "You're welcome to ride along. Then I'm gonna come back here and clean up."

Sam was so stunned at the notion of a sister that all he could do was nod, crossing around the car to climb into the passenger seat.

It felt so normal, so ordinary and comforting, just riding shotgun in the old car with Dean's profile right there next to him, and the knot in Sam's chest loosened a little as he glanced over, unable to stop staring once he started, till Dean obviously felt his eyes on him and glanced back with eyebrows raised.

"What?" he asked, and Sam shook his head.

"Nothin," he answered. "You were just so cool back there. I mean, in the face of the whole ghost thing. Most people would've been pretty freaked."

"Guess I'm not most people," Dean said with a little grin that was unbelievably adorable. "Seriously, in my line of work I deal with a lot of weird stuff. Granted, most of it's human. Not a lot of ghosts. That is a little unusual."

"How long has it been happening?" Sam asked, watched Dean shrug and look slightly uncomfortable.

"About five years," he admitted, and Sam nearly choked.

"What?" he stared. "You've been living in a haunted house for five years and you haven't done anything about it? And you're still living there?"

Dean frowned. "What do you think I should do?" he demanded. "Call Ghostbusters? It's not exactly a common pest control problem, Sam! Besides, at first it was just little things. Stuff wasn't where we left it. Sometimes pictures were upside down or fell off the wall. Little stuff. For a long time. I only started seeing patterns after it got worse. And it only got like that -- like what you just saw -- in the past year or so."

"So you called Missouri," Sam clarified.

Dean nodded.

"She came over, walked through the house. Said the thing seemed to be centered in Sam's room."

"And Sam's room was where -- " Sam couldn't say it, but he had his suspicions.

Dean took his hand off the steering wheel, wiped it on his jeans, then through his hair before putting it back on the wheel.

Sam knew that gesture. Dean was uncomfortable, reluctant to reveal something, needed to throw a fierce frown at Sam for even pushing it.

But then he seemed to see something in Sam's face that reassured him.

"Thirty years ago, my baby brother died in that room," Dean said. "There was a short in the electrical system. Not a lot of fire, but the room was full of smoke and he just suffocated."

Sam drew a deep breath, let it out slowly.

"So it's a baby ghost," he said quietly. "Irrational, emotional, stuck in the veil, probably dormant for years until you all moved back in and triggered it."

Dean shot another glance at him.

"That's what Missouri said," he agreed. "Only she said it was something else too. Not just the baby's spirit. There was something angry and vengeful. Something that was attracted by the baby's spirit but was separate from it. It seems to focus on Sam."

He turned the car into the driveway of a nice suburban home -- nicer than Dean's house -- and turned off the engine. Turning to Sam, he said,

"It's after my son, Sam, and I have to stop it."

Sam nodded.

"I think I can help you," he said, and Dean raised his eyebrows. "It's sort of what I do."

"You're a ghost-buster?" Dean gaped at him. "Are you kidding me?"

Sam was saved from answering by the porch light on the house switching on suddenly and the front door opening, revealing a sleepy-looking blond woman wrapped in a dressing gown.

"Dean?" she squinted into the gloom of the driveway.

Dean was already out of the car, opening the rear door to gather his sleeping son into his arms.

Sam watched, spellbound, as Dean carried the child to the front door, spoke quietly to the woman, and they all disappeared inside. Sam waited patiently, processing the fact that Dean had a sister. Younger sister, by the look of her, which meant she was younger than Sam. Which meant that John and Mary had had another child after losing their baby. Which meant that Dean had grown up with a sibling after all. A sister. What a different family dynamic that would have created for Dean, he mused. Not to mention his parents.

Sam suddenly felt small and insignificant, an intruder on this only-slightly-less-than-perfect world. A world where the only real tragedy had been alleviated by the birth of another sibling, who wasn't a replacement for their loss, of course, but must have been a real comfort to the family nonetheless. Must have helped John recover from his own sense of crushing guilt over what had happened to Mary's baby.

John Winchester might even have been a happy man in this scenario. Might even have learned to forgive himself. Or at least not blame his son, not lay the weight of his own failure on Dean's four-year-old shoulders.

Huh.

The front door opened and Dean came out, turned back to say something to the blond woman, who put her hand on his arm for a minute before withdrawing into the house.

Sam watched as Dean headed back to the car, slipped into the driver's seat next to him.

"Beth will take care of him," he said. "I don't know what I'd do without her."

"Nice house," Sam commented as Dean backed the car out of the driveway, turned toward home.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Her girlfriend is some big shot administrator at the university. Makes twice my salary. And of course they don't have kids. It's nice for Beth, and I'm happy for her. She misses Mom a lot, so I'm glad she has Chrissy. They're good for each other."

Sam couldn't keep his eyes off Dean's profile, wave after wave of homesickness crashing over him.

Dean noticed after a minute, glanced at him, smiled.

"You're thinking the gay thing runs in families," he said, and Sam sucked in a breath.

"Uh, no," he admitted. "Wasn't thinking that at all. I was -- " He hesitated, so that Dean glanced at him again, prompted "What?" and Sam had to say "I was missing my brother, actually."

Dean frowned. "You have a brother?"

Sam nodded.

"Huh," Dean grunted. "Older or younger?"

"He -- he's older," Sam said. "Four years." And for some reason, now that the dam had broken, Sam couldn't stop talking. "I always looked up to him, you know? He was -- he was my hero. He was always there, always taking care of me, watching out for me. Hell, he practically raised me."

"Where were your folks?" Dean seemed genuinely curious.

"My -- my mom died when I was a baby," Sam explained. "And my dad -- he went kinda crazy with grief, I guess. Took us on the road. We never had much. Dad took jobs wherever he could, left us alone for days sometimes. So it was just me and my brother a lot of the time while I was growing up. The two of us against the world."

"Wow, man, I'm sorry," Dean breathed sympathetically. "Must've been tough."

Sam watched Dean's profile for a moment before answering. "Nah, it was all I knew. And my brother -- he was everything to me. He was amazing."

Dean nodded. "Family's the most important thing," he agreed. "When the chips are down, sometimes they're the only thing you can count on. Like I said, I don't know what I'd do without Beth."

Sam felt the tears smarting at the back of his eyes and had to look away, drew the back of his hand over his cheeks to wipe the moisture off. Damn if he was gonna start crying in front of this man who didn't even know him. And how weird was it that he could actually grieve for something that was sitting right next to him in the car he'd been riding in his whole life.

Fuckin' weird.


	4. Chapter 4

When they got back to the house Sam did his best to help Dean clean up, then got his EMF reader from the car and got to work.

The readings were definitely strongest in the kid's room, but they were all over the house, fluctuating in the bedrooms, flickering in the kitchen and bathrooms, almost off the charts in the living room and basement. Something or several somethings had definitely taken up residence in the old Winchester homestead.

Sam couldn't help wondering if it had anything to do with him, with his past as a demon-chosen prodigy, that other reality bleeding into this one the way Azazel had bled into his mouth as a baby.

Because if Sam knew anything, he knew it was dangerous to underestimate the curse of his existence, even if in this reality he didn't even exist.

Except that he was here, and he was still himself, so somehow whatever Gabriel had done hadn't completely obliterated Sam's existence after all.

Whatever that meant.

When he finished his sweep of the house, Sam got his laptop and did some research on the house, but came up with zilch. Nothing unusual had been reported in this house before or since the death of the baby in 1983, and Sam had to assume that any ghostly activity had only begun once Dean and his family moved in five years ago.

Sam knew what he would need to do next, and he wasn't about to include this mild-mannered version of his brother in those plans.

"There's something I gotta do," he told Dean as he closed his laptop and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.

Again, that look of expected rejection in Dean's eyes nearly sent him to his knees. How had this Dean survived so much when he seemed so vulnerable?

"Right now?" Dean asked. "Can't it wait till morning?"

"No, actually, it can't," Sam said.

"Okay, then I'm coming with you," Dean's jaw set in a stubborn clench and Sam knew there would be no arguing with him.

Besides which, he really couldn't leave him here by himself. Not after the display of angry spirit he had witnessed earlier. This house was simply not safe, and the hunter in him refused to allow Dean, or anyone, to be put in that kind of danger if Sam could help it.

"Okay," he agreed reluctantly. "But you're not gonna like what I have to do."

* * *  
In the car on the drive to the cemetery -- Sam's car this time, trunk full of tools -- Dean said nothing for awhile after Sam explained what he was doing, just stared out the windshield with that set jaw, frowning.

"And this is what you do," he said finally. "You investigate ghosts and then you salt and burn their remains. And that stops them."

"Most of the time," Sam agreed. "Not always. And I don't think the salt and burn will end this thing completely. I just know it's something I can do, and it needs to be done. Once that baby's spirit is out of the house, whatever else is there may leave too. The baby's spirit seems to be what attracted the other thing, so once it's gone hopefully there won't be anything to hold it and it may just leave on its own."

"But you're not sure about that," Dean clarified.

Sam shook his head.

The fact that he knew exactly where to go -- exactly which part of which cemetery -- sure, Dean may have assumed that Sam had looked it up on his laptop -- but really, Sam knew exactly where they'd be without looking it up, and of course in this reality it was just as he'd assumed. John must have purchased those plots when the baby died. Or else Mary's father had done it, since he and Deanna Campbell had died ten years previous. Sam was willing to bet the circumstances were tragic, but different. No yellow-eyed demon deal, no grandson visiting from the future.

Nevertheless, they were all there. John, Mary, and baby Sam.

Sam tried not to think too much as he sunk the shovel into the grass over the baby's grave. Dean had got over his initial shock and was right there beside him, rubbing shoulders as he drove his own shovel into the ground.

It felt beyond strange digging this grave in this cemetery with this man who had no real understanding of what he was doing, was just trusting Sam -- a stranger he had only just met -- with this macabre task. That was weird in itself, Sam knew, and not for the first time wondered if there was something supernatural at work in the way Dean just accepted everything Sam told him, just trusted him implicitly.

And when they finally unearthed the little grave, opened the casket to find the bones and soft little baby clothing which were all that was left after thirty years, Sam couldn't help the gasp that escaped his lips at the notion that this -- this was all that remained of him in this reality.

Dean watched him pour salt and lighter fluid over the body, silent and grim, but when Sam pulled out a book of matches and started to light them, he felt Dean's hand covering his. Turning a questioning look at his brother, Dean tugged the matches away, meeting Sam's eyes with a determined look that Sam knew well.

"He's my brother," Dean said, and Sam surrendered the matchbook and stepped back, suddenly overwhelmed by the notion that this was his own end. That he would just disappear when Dean did this.

But of course he didn't. He and Dean stood side by side, watching the flames shoot up, devouring all final trace of baby Sam Winchester, dead in a house fire at age six months.

And when the fire died down and it was clear that the job was done, Dean and Sam worked side by side to fill the little grave again, then returned to the car as the first light of morning was peeking across the horizon.

"I need a shower," Dean announced when they pulled up to the house.

"Dean, you can't stay here," Sam reminded him. "There's still something malevolent here. We need to find out what it is, how to get rid of it. Until then, it's not safe for you or your son."

"What do you want me to do, Sam?" Dean demanded angrily. "Live in a motel?"

When Sam tipped his head in a doubtful affirmative, Dean glared.

"No way," he said firmly. "This is my home. I'm not scared of some ghosty. I don't care how dangerous it is. This is my home."

He glared at Sam for a minute, daring him to argue, then announced, "I'm gonna take a shower."

And he was out of the car and striding across the lawn before Sam could stop him, could do more than just watch helplessly until Dean got to the front door, turned back.

"You comin'?" he demanded.

And damn if Sam was gonna let Dean just walk back into that haunted house alone.

So yeah, he found himself back inside the Winchester home, waiting his turn for the shower. And when Dean came down wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a soft grey tee-shirt Sam was overwhelmed with a need to protect and take care of this gentle, good-hearted man whose normal apple-pie life had so recently been disrupted by grief and tragedy.

"Shower's all yours," Dean said, still toweling his hair. "I left some duds in the bathroom. They're probably too small, but at least they don't smell like a graveyard."

Dean gestured toward the kitchen. "I'm gonna fix us something to eat."

As Dean turned to head into the kitchen Sam watched him for a moment until he realized he was staring at his ass, then he hurried up the stairs to wash off the night's escapade.

The clothes were indeed too small, and Sam was uncomfortably aware of how little they left to the imagination. But he knew he didn't have much choice. Hadn't planned to be here so long so hadn't even packed a change of clothes, so he would just have to make do while he used Dean's washing machine to clean the ones he'd had on.

Sam was aware of Dean watching him, noticing everything while trying not to stare as Sam walked into the kitchen carrying his pile of clothes and mumbling his request to use the machines. The smells of home-cooked bacon and eggs, toast and coffee, were so comforting Sam almost forgot he and Dean still barely knew each other. It was easy to forget as he filled the washing machine, returned to the kitchen to take the cup of coffee Dean offered, his fingers brushing his brother's, eyes lifting to gaze into Dean's.

But when Dean reached up to push the hair back from his face, then left his hand tangled in it so that Sam only had to lean down a little before their lips met, tasting coffee and bacon and smelling Dean's aftershave -- Sam felt himself moan and press closer, needing the familiar heat of Dean's body wedged up against the counter, aware of every line and angle, pushing his knee between Dean's legs so he could feel his hardness against Sam's thigh as Sam deepened the kiss, putting his mug down so he could use both hands to gather Dean closer, hold him tightly as he ran his hands over Dean's back, down over his ass, pulling Dean away from the counter so he could get a grip on the muscled cheeks, yanking him in so he could grind his hips against Dean's.

Dean's hands were in his hair, holding his head as he kissed back, tongue hot and wet and needy, perfect lips bruising Sam's. As Sam began grinding against him Dean made little moaning sounds that sounded almost like sobs, felt desperate and pleading so that Sam had to tear his mouth away from Dean's just to bury his face in his neck, to feel those perfect little sounds vibrating against his lips and cheeks.

"Sam -- " Dean expelled the word on a gasp that was almost a sob, punched out in a strangled cry.

Then the doorbell rang and Dean jumped, tensing in Sam's arms, pushing against him with palms against his biceps.

Sam released him reluctantly, his body crying out in protest, every muscle clenching with the need to pull Dean closer. Dean pushed steadily until Sam stepped back, catching a glimpse of the desperate, lost look on Dean's face the moment before he shut down, cleared his throat, turned away toward the living room, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Which did nothing to alleviate his swollen, reddened lips or flushed cheeks, the bright sparkling green of his eyes.

Sam couldn't tear his eyes away as Dean turned away from him. Dean had always been gorgeous, even when he was a little boy. But Sam was quite sure he had never seen him look so -- beautiful was the only word that came to mind. Like something almost otherworldly, every feature accentuated, every color vivid and focused like some kind of super-high-definition photograph. Not real.

Sam was dazzled, couldn't stop watching as Dean moved away from him, down the short hall to the front door. Part of his brain -- the rational, experienced-hunter part -- knew there was something a little off, but it wasn't until Dean opened the door and Sam could see Missouri Mosely standing there, could read the stern, disapproving look on her face, that he knew his instincts were correct.

Something supernatural was going on with Dean.


	5. Chapter 5

The short, round woman standing in Dean's doorway was older than Sam remembered, but otherwise she looked just the same. And she clearly felt comfortable in the Winchester home, because she brushed in as soon as Dean opened the door, staring up at him with a suspicious look as she demanded,

"Where is he?"

Dean stepped aside to let her pass, which was when she saw Sam and stopped short, eyes narrowing. She looked him up and down, and Sam was uncomfortably aware of how undressed he was, muscles squeezed under too-tight cotton, tan arms and legs sticking out awkwardly. Barefoot.

Missouri put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips.

"Did you tell him?" she demanded, and when Sam looked blank she stomped her foot. "You didn't, did you? And now look what you've done."

Missouri waved a hand at Dean, who glanced up at Sam helplessly, his too-bright eyes and lips making it hard for Sam to look at anything else. And those ridiculously long eyelashes --

"Tell me what?" Dean demanded, finally finding his voice, getting his brain back on line faster than Sam for once.

Missouri shook her head disgustedly.

"Mm, mm, mm," she scolded. "Boy knows, but he's keeping it to hisself. Now, that just ain't right, Sam Winchester, and you know it."

Sam started at the use of his name. He felt panic rising in his chest.

"I -- I don't know what you mean," he protested.

Missouri stomped up to him, tilting her whole body backwards and shaking her finger up at his face.

"You didn't tell him you two boys are soul-mates, of course," she said. "Even though you knew. Now the question is, how did you know that?"

"What did you call him?" Dean was registering her earlier pronouncement, albeit belatedly, confusion playing across his features as he followed Missouri into the kitchen.

"Sam Winchester," Missouri said. "Your brother. All grown up so pretty, too."

Sam felt himself grow small as Dean's look of shock replaced his earlier confusion.

Because Dean knew, he realized. Dean had known all along. He just didn't want to believe it because he wanted Sam so badly.

And because it was impossible.

"But we burned the baby," Dean protested, frowning as he struggled to make sense of Missouri's revelation. "Baby Sam. So how can this be my brother? We burned the baby."

"Ah, honey, you know there's things goin' on here I cain't explain," Missouri said, her tone sympathetic as she turned and patted Dean's arm. "I just know it's the truth. And this boy knows it too. I don't know why he was lying to you, but that's for him to tell."

She turned back to Sam. "You know things ain't always what they seem, Sam," she said. "Even with all your sharp hunter's instincts, sometimes things don't make the kind of sense you think they should. Especially when you done messed with the fabric of the universe the way you have. You can't just erase yourself, Sam. Even when you try, there's things left behind to prove you were here. You of all people should know that."

She put her hand on Sam's arm, and he could feel the tingle of her power.

"It's all right, Sam," she said gently. "You were just doin' your best to protect your brother. The universe knows that. It'll be all right in the end, but you and him still have some work to do."

She gave his arm another pat, then turned to go. Sam and Dean watched her, stunned, until she reached the open front door, where she turned to look at them one last time.

"Just love each other, boys," she said with a small smile, encouraging. "Don't let anything get in the way of that. It's the love that saves the world. Now, just remember what I tol' you."

Then she turned and waddled down the steps, down the driveway, and off down the sidewalk.

Dean watched her go from the doorway, and Sam watched Dean, waiting for the shoe to drop.

It didn't take long. Dean closed the front door, turned to Sam, his face blank, eyes hooded and dark.

"So when were you gonna tell me, Sam?" he asked quietly, but Sam could hear the underlying steel in his voice.

Sam took a breath, shifted his feet, struggling to put his thoughts into something coherent.

"I didn't think it mattered," he said finally.

Dean flinched, shook his head once.

"How could you think that?" he demanded. "You're my brother and you don't think it matters enough to tell me? What the hell's wrong with you?"

"In this reality, your brother died," Sam protested helplessly. "I just figured it was some kind of weird glitch that I'm even here at all. I'm supposed to be dead."

"Except you're not," Dean observed. "And you lied to me."

Sam hung his head, guilt sloshing in his stomach, making him feel ill.

"You made me think I was gay," Dean accused.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, staring at the floor, unable to raise his eyes, feeling really and truly terrible. He could feel Dean glaring at him, considering, furious.

"So now I find out I'm not gay after all. I'm just some kind of pervert who's hot for his brother," Dean clenched and unclenched his fists, and Sam could feel the heat rolling off him, the need to hit something. Someone. "How could you let that happen? What kind of asshole does that?"

Sam said nothing, heat rushing to his face, fighting the tears stinging his eyes.

"God, Sam," Dean breathed out, clenching his teeth now, and Sam waited for his fist to connect with his face. Knew he deserved it.

"I think you should leave," Dean said finally, obviously still fighting to control the urge for violence. "Just -- finish your laundry and get out. I'm going to work, and when I get back, I want you gone. Got it?"

Sam gave a small nod, still unable to look up, knowing if he looked into that accusing green glare he would lose all control. Start sobbing. Maybe never stop.

Dean turned away then, and Sam dared to glance up at his retreating figure, noting the stoop to his broad shoulders, the tension in his strong back.

* *  
Dean came downstairs a few minutes later, dressed for work in his EMT uniform. He walked past Sam with barely a glance, his jaw set and clenched, went out the door without a backwards glance, slamming the door behind him.

A moment later Sam heard the Impala's familiar motor revving up, stood helplessly at the front window, watching it pull out of the driveway. Watched his brother drive out of his life.

Sam finished his laundry and got dressed, debated about the chimera still probably haunting the house. It bothered him more than he liked to admit to leave without finishing a job, especially a job that had so much personal meaning for him. But he knew better than to try to fix things now. Dean would have to find a way to deal with this thing his own way. Maybe now that he knew about hunters he would find another one who could help, one who didn't have family ties clouding his judgment.

Nevertheless, Sam decided at the last minute to leave a note on the fridge with his number, if only to assure himself later than he'd done all he could to be available if Dean ever needed him.

Because he knew with all his heart that if Dean ever did need him, he'd be there like a shot. Hoped against hope that someday Dean would forgive him, maybe even see his way to understanding why he had done what he did, how all he'd ever wanted was for Dean to have a normal life.


	6. Chapter 6

The next few months went by in a blur. Sam was busy -- deliberately kept busy -- hunting anything and everything he could find, working himself nearly to death to atone for his colossal mistakes, his idiotic asshole behavior.

At first he had to force himself not to check up on Dean -- not to look at the Lawrence newspaper on-line, in case Dean was mentioned for another one of his acts of heroic bravery on duty. Similarly, he resisted the urge to check his messages, instinctively understanding that Dean would not call, would not text, would not contact him in any way.

Sam did his best to bury his grief in his work, pushing himself beyond normal limits so that he knew he was making himself sick, not sleeping, not eating, in danger of getting himself injured or killed on a job.

Yet his pride wouldn't let him reach out to any of his old contacts, partly because he was afraid none of the hunters he used to know were alive in this reality, but mostly because he felt he deserved his loneliness, deserved to be abandoned and forgotten and to die someday not long from now, forever unknown and unsung.

* *  
When his cell rang Sam was slumped over the table in the bunker's library, having passed out on his laptop after another late night researching. The phone's insistent ring had been going on for awhile, he realized as he fumbled to open the call, his fingers shaky and awkward with sleep. Sam pretty much slept on the floor or the table these days; it had been so long since he'd had a decent night's sleep in a real bed he couldn't remember. Didn't care. Mostly he caught naps, passing out on the table like this time, or in the car on a job. He knew it was bad, knew he was growing weaker and sicker, didn't care.

Calls came in once in awhile, mostly referrals from cases he'd worked on -- so the call didn't surprise him. But the voice on it did.

"Sam?"

Sam was awake like a shot, cold water flooding his veins.

He'd know that voice anywhere.

"Dean?" he breathed, a sudden rush of emotion threatening to collapse his lungs.

"Yeah -- hey, I need your help," Dean sounded winded, like he'd been running. "My son is missing."

Sam choked back the sob rising in his throat, dragged his hand through his hair to clear his head.

"Uh -- ok," he reached for the cup of left-over coffee on the table, struggling with emotional overload and waking himself up enough to think straight. "How long?"

"It's been five days, Sam," Dean's voice was choked, and Sam knew he was fighting back a sob. "The cops are giving up. I know how these things go. They're switching to recovery mode, giving up on the rescue mission."

Sam sucked in a breath. "I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered. "But I'm not sure how I can help -- "

"It's a thing, Sam," Dean sounded fierce now. "Something -- something not human. It took him. I know it, and I need you to find it."

Sam had heard that story before. Desperate people who knew about the supernatural world often assumed it was something preternatural going on when it was usually -- or at least mostly -- just some human evil. Humans could be monsters too, as Sam knew well.

And this sounded like another case of a grieving parent who just couldn't accept that something so terrible -- but natural nevertheless -- could happen.

But this was Dean, and Sam was not about to let his brother suffer alone.

"Ok," he answered finally. "What makes you think it's something supernatural, Dean? I mean, you're a professional. You know how these things usually go -- "

"This is different, Sam," Dean was practically growling now. "It took him in the middle of the night, out of bed. The window was open. There's a blue handprint on the windowsill. It's glowing."

Sam's brain made its usually gear-grinding file-checking thing as he considered the possibilities.

"You mean like a djinn," he suggested, forgetting for a moment that Dean didn't have the background or memories to make sense of his theory. "But those don't -- they dwell in dark, abandoned buildings. They don't take people out of their beds."

"This one did," Dean insisted. "Please come, Sam. I know what you think, but this is my son. And I know it's something supernatural. I had a dream -- something's going on, ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Sam nodded automatically. "I'll be there in a couple of hours."

* *  
Sam showered and changed quickly -- it had been days and he knew he reeked -- and when he looked at himself in the mirror, he noticed the dark hollows under his eyes, how his face had thinned, the pale sickly pallor of his skin. When he pulled his jeans on he had to tighten the belt, knew he'd lost a lot of weight. Even finding clean clothes that fit him was a challenge. Most of his shirts hung off his shoulders like they were made for someone much bigger; he swam in his jacket too, looking weirdly small for someone who was so tall. Sunken and skeletal.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but he wasn't hungry. His stomach fluttered but it had nothing to do with food. The thought of seeing Dean again was doing strange things to his insides. To his head. His heart.

And when Sam pulled up to the house in Lawrence, the familiar shape of the classic car that had been his only home in the driveway, making his head swim with homesickness, he was overcome by a feeling of deja vu. It had been six months, but when Dean opened the door to his knock Sam wanted to collapse into his arms and never leave.

Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at his brother, unsure whether to speak or shake his hand.

Dean stared back for a moment, then dropped his gaze to take in Sam's emaciated frame, frowning, before returning his gaze to Sam's face.

"Hey," Sam said awkwardly, finally.

"Hey," Dean lowered his eyes, stepping back with a welcoming gesture.

"Come in," he said, his familiar deep voice sending shivers up and down Sam's spine.

That's when he noticed the two women sitting in the living room. They looked up expectantly when he walked in, and he recognized the blond. Beth. Her eyes were red from crying, and she was holding a crumpled tissue in her hand.

Sam shifted his feet and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, awkward in the face of such raw grief.

"This is my sister, Beth," Dean introduced as he moved up behind Sam, almost but not quite brushing his shoulder with his own. "And her partner, Chrissy."

"Hey," Sam nodded to each of the women, sharing a quick glance with Chrissy, whose short dark hair and protective stance toward Beth pegged her as the stronger, older half of their relationship.

"This is Sam," Dean continued, and from the way he introduced Sam, it was fairly clear they all knew -- something.

"So you're the one who got rid of the ghost," Chrissy clarified, and Sam glanced at Dean before nodding. "And this kind of thing is what you do. Hunting supernatural things."

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

"Dean says you have a working theory about what happened to our little guy," Chrissy went on, clearly in charge.

Sam took a deep breath, nodded. "Yeah, it sounds like something we've -- I've -- encountered before," he said. "Although they don't usually take kids out of their beds in the middle of the night. That's usually something a little more -- human, I'm afraid."

Chrissy nodded. "The cops have exhausted that angle," she said. "They've interviewed every drifter, every registered sex offender, every teacher and friend and parent of a friend -- they've been especially thorough since it's one of their own."

Dean cleared his throat. "Sam knows that," he assured her. "He knows I wouldn't have called him except as a last resort."

Dean's words were like a bucket of ice-water poured over his head, and Sam had to make a serious effort not to cringe. He hunched his shoulders, needing to make himself as small as possible.

That's when he caught Beth's eye. She was watching him, noticed his reaction to Dean's cruelty, sucked in a little breath, her blue eyes sparkling with tears.

So she didn't know they were brothers, Sam realized. But she knew there was something between them. Dean had clearly made that obvious to her sometime in the past six months.

"I need to see his room," Sam said, half turning to Dean but keeping his eyes lowered, unable to face the disdain in the older man's beautiful green eyes.

"OK, sure," Dean turned, leading the way upstairs. Sam shot a parting glance at Beth, gave her a slight smile, was rewarded with a small smile in return.

So she was an ally. Huh.

When he entered little Sam's room he could see the hand-print right away. The feeling of deja vu was strong here too, and Sam could almost sense the residual energy of fractured realities centering in this room. Baby Sam Winchester had died here. Dean's son -- Sam's namesake -- had clearly attracted something supernatural. More than once. All of Sam's hunter's instincts told him this was so, and he was too caught up in the sudden confirmation of this line of thought to register that Dean had his hand on his shoulder, was speaking to him.

"Sam? You ok?"

Sam lifted his eyes, met Dean's gaze, read real concern there.

"You named him Sam," he heard himself say, and his voice sounded far away and a little distorted. "Did you know about me?"

Dean's look of surprise gave him away, and Sam choked out a strangled sob, reaching for the door frame to keep himself from collapsing.

"Oh God -- " he sobbed out, tears falling freely down his cheeks. "That's why this is happening."

"What are you talking about?" Dean demanded, taking Sam by the shoulders and shaking him a little. "Are you saying this has something to do with my son? My dreams of you -- they have something to do with why my boy was taken?"

Sam was shaking, stumbling against the door frame, fighting to stay upright, overcome by that other reality crashing in on them.

"They were visions, Dean," he gasped, wiping his sleeve across his eyes to clear his vision. "You were having visions. Of me. Of our life together. Before your son was even born!"

Dean shook his head. "How is that possible?" he insisted, confirming Sam's every word. "I didn't even know you."

"But when I showed up here that day, you knew," Sam clarified. "You recognized me. I could see it in your face. You accepted me right away because you knew."

Dean's face fell, and Sam knew he was right.

"What does this have to do with my son? Where's my boy?"

Sam shook his head. "It came for him because he's your son, Dean," Sam explained. "It's keeping him because he's a Winchester. Because he's one of us. It knows who you are, don't you see? Who you really are."

"Who I really am -- " Dean frowned.

"Your dreams, Dean," Sam insisted. "You're a hunter. Like me. We hunt together. And chances are, we've hunted this thing, whatever it is, and now it's taken your kid out of some kind of revenge or payback -- because that's why we don't have friends or family in our life. Because we put them in danger. Because everyone around us gets hurt or -- or dies."

"Hey," Dean put his palm against Sam's cheek, his other hand against Sam's neck, fingers tangled in his hair, making him go still, staring helplessly into Dean's eyes. 

"Look at me, buddy," Dean's deep voice rumbled soothingly, his touch pouring warmth and security into Sam's skin, steadying him. "I need you to pull it together, Sam, ok? I need you to help me find my son."

Sam stared silently for a minute, fighting the urge to fall apart, to just collapse into his brother's arms and never leave.

In the end it was Dean's faith in him that gave him the courage to soldier on. Dean believed in him. Needed his help. Trusted him to get the job done. And no matter how little faith he had in his ability to do anything right, he knew he had to try. Or die in the attempt.

"OK," he nodded finally, sucking in a breath and squaring his shoulders, pulling himself up so he could stand without leaning on the doorframe. "Let's get to work."

Dean released him then, retreating back into himself, his eyes regaining their distant look, worry and strain creasing his forehead, the overwhelming need to protect the ones he loved taking precedent over every other impulse.

Except now that prime directive wasn't centered on Sam. Now Dean was thinking about his boy again, which was right. Which was as it should be. The little boy had replaced Sam in Dean's heart, and that was appropriate, of course. That was what children were for, Sam told himself firmly as he followed Dean back down the stairs and into the living room.

"We need to find out where the thing has your boy," Sam said as the women looked up at him expectantly. "Djinn like abandoned buildings. Somewhere they can slowly drain their victims without being disturbed."

Sam and Chrissy spent the next hour researching possibilities while Beth made sandwiches and Dean paced the room, went outside to mow the lawn, didn't stop moving.

When Beth set a plate of sandwiches on the table in front of Sam she put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

"You need to eat something," she said softly.

Sam glanced up at her gratefully, noting how much she looked like Mary. How odd that in this reality Mary's surviving children were the ones who looked like her. It was Dad's son who was dead, no trace of his dark hair and gigantic body in either of these fair, freckled siblings, beautiful as they both were.

It took them a little over an hour to come up with a list of likely locations. Of those, only a handful lacked security guards or other intermittent human presence which might make them possible djinn lairs. The closest was on the University campus -- an old science building which had been shut down in the past year when a brand new one was built.

"Let's go," Dean said when Sam told him what he'd found.

Sam shook his head. "I'll go," he insisted. "Alone."

"Like hell," Dean spat back. "I'm coming with you."

"Dean, these things are dangerous."

"I can handle myself," Dean insisted. "I know my way around a gun."

Sam sighed. "Djinn have to be killed with a silver knife dipped in lamb's blood. You have any of those lying around?"

"Do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Sam tried not to look smug, but with Dean staring him down with that superior older brother expression on his face it wasn't easy. They were standing at the open trunk of Sam's car, Dean's eyes widening as he perused the arsenal contained inside.

"You've got to be freakin' kidding me," Dean breathed as Sam pulled out the necessary blade and a vial of nasty-looking red stuff. "Don't let Beth see this. She likes you now, but that won't last if she finds out you're the unabomber."

Sam tucked the blade and vial into his jacket, closed the trunk, then crossed around to the driver's door.

"I'll be back in an hour," he said as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"No way," Dean announced, already yanking the passenger door open. "You're an idiot if you think I'm gonna let you go in there alone."

"Dean, I can't let you come with me," Sam insisted. "You don't have the training. You'll just be a liability. You need to let me do my job."

"Fuck you, Sam," Dean slammed the door shut with a loud whack. "I've had plenty of training, thanks to Uncle Sam. Two tours! Hand-to-hand combat! So fuck you and your liability. I've got your back, asshole, whether you want me or not."

"Dean -- "

"It's my son, Sam. My son!"

The fierce determination and Winchester stubbornness were so familiar, combined with the fact that this was Dean, Big Brother who had always led every hunt, and it felt so right that he was here, right beside Sam where he belonged, and in the end Sam just sighed, couldn't maintain his resistance, clamped his mouth shut and started the car.

* *  
The building was bigger than Sam had imagined, full of empty classrooms and old, long-unused labs. As much as Sam hated to, he agreed when Dean suggested they split up, cover more territory. Armed with bloody silver knives and flashlights, they moved silently away from each other, coming back together after they had covered one floor, moving on to the next.

Sam was beginning to think he'd got it wrong, this wasn't the right building after all, when he found what he was looking for. Little Sam was hanging by his wrists on a hook in a broom closet in the basement, unconscious but alive. He managed to cut the boy down, gather him in his arms and back out of the closet before the djinn attacked.

With Little Sam's inert body hindering his movements Sam barely had a chance to draw his blade with one hand while cradling the boy with the other arm, launching himself hard toward the monster as its poisonous hands reached for his neck and face, aiming for bare skin. In the split second before the djinn touched him Sam was aware that his blade had hit its mark, sunk deep into the creature's body.

Then the poison did its work and Sam was suddenly alone, back in the bunker.


	7. Chapter 7

"So how was your trip?"

The familiar, sarcastic voice came from behind him, but when Sam whirled to face Gabriel he wasn't there.

Then he turned back and there he was, sitting in Sam's chair at the table, leaning back with his legs up on the table, crossed at the ankles, grinning.

"You -- " Sam was shaking, clenching his fists, breathing hard. "You said he wouldn't know me. But he did! He does! And now it's all messed up because he remembers and he hates me!"

"You just saved his son's life, Sam," Gabriel reminded him. "I don't think he hates you."

"But he was supposed to have a normal life!" Sam wailed. "I need him to forget all this!"

Gabriel shook his head, swinging his legs down and scooting the chair back so he could get up, pace next to the table.

"You're forgetting the whole soul-mate thing, Sam," Gabriel scolded. "I did too, actually, which is why this is turning out so different from what I imagined. But hey, that's what makes it fun!"

"I needed him to forget me," Sam insisted, running his hands through his hair, collapsing into the chair across the table and burying his head in his hands.

"And so he did, for awhile," Gabriel confirmed brightly. "Till his son came along and he started dreaming about you. Funny how that happens -- having kids brings up all sorts of issues we bury inside ourselves, never even know are there till the idea of having a kid -- a legacy -- makes it all come rushing out."

Sam frowned. "So you're saying Dean's dreams of me started when Little Sam was born."

"Before, actually," Gabriel agreed. "He dreamed about the house. Saving you from the fire."

Sam stared. "That's why he moved back to the house?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Biggest childhood trauma for him was surviving that night when you died," he said. "Dean spent his whole life atoning for that. His career choice. Having the chance to do good in the world, all that crap."

"But -- " Sam felt tears welling up in his eyes. Ignored them as they started to fall. "But he -- things started to go bad for him after that. Mom and Dad died. His wife."

"His wife left him because he started to think he was gay," Gabriel smirked. "Wow! Dreaming about grown-up you was turning him on! Who knew? I just love dirty movies. Never knew I was gonna get to guest star in one, especially one with you two as the main characters, but what can I say? I didn't write the book, I just get to look at the porn."

"Shut up!" Sam wailed. "This is not funny! It's awful. Dean's life is all fucked up, and I didn't even exist in it. I thought removing myself would make things better for him."

"And so it did, my friend," Gabriel's voice had softened. "So it did."

"How can you say that?" Sam demanded. "He was targeted by the djinn. Supernatural things are coming for him because of me. His family is dead. He's right back where he started."

"He has a sister and a son he didn't have before," Gabriel reminded him. "He grew up in a loving, supportive family. He's never been to Hell, or killed anyone outside of combat duty, and he's spent the past ten years saving people and making the world a better place. No Mark of Cain, no monsters or angels or evil things that go bump in the night, for the most part. Sounds like a good deal to me, but if you want me to put things back the way they were -- "

Gabriel lifted his fingers, ready to snap.

"No!" Sam jumped to his feet, frantic. "No! Just -- can't you make him forget me? Can't you save him from me? From us? All this perversity and corruption -- he doesn't deserve that. Can't I just be dead? I died in that fire. Why can't I just stay dead?"

"Sam, Sam, Sam," Gabriel shook his head. "You always were such a whiner. Don't you think it's time to grow up a little? Your brother loves you. You and he are clearly destined to be together. Even an archangel can't change that. So for the love of all things bromantic -- or at least pervy and porny -- accept your fate already, dude! Embrace your inner sex god! Get with the chick-flick moment and go love your brother as you were obviously meant to do. And for God's sake, get over yourself, Sam. Lighten up and live a little! Believe me, nobody, but nobody gets the kind of chance for a do-over that you're getting here. It's completely unheard of. So if you don't get on board with the plan, you better watch out, because it's definitely getting on board with you.

"Oooh, love the image," Gabriel shivered. "And I'd love to stick around and see how you and your brother make out -- heh heh -- but I gotta go! Things to do, people to see, lives to mess up and corrupt! So goodbye, Sam. Hope you get it right this time!"

And he was gone, and this time the world went with him, crumbling into darkness with that feeling of vertigo that Sam had missed before, light and consciousness fading so that Sam was aware he wasn't in the bunker anymore a second before everything went completely black.

* *  
"Sam."

The voice was soothing, deep, familiar in all the right ways, and Sam's consciousness was drawn toward it like a fly to honey, needy and hungry and hopeful.

Then he was aware of light, sounds, the feel of something tugging his arm, a warm hand in his. As his eyes fluttered open Sam recognized the smells and knew he was in a hospital, an intravenous tube stuck in his arm, his brother sitting by his bed.

Holding his hand.

"Dean," the word slipped out on a breath, like a prayer, and he realized his throat was sore, mouth dry and unused to speech.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean murmured, and the word was a salve on his wounded soul.

Sam managed a weak smile, squeezed Dean's hand, let his eyes flutter closed again, savoring the moment.

"Water," he croaked, and Dean pulled his hand away -- no! -- reached for the cup of ice water on the bedside cart, used both hands to push the straw between Sam's cracked lips.

"There ya go," Dean murmured as Sam took a sip, letting the cool moisture spread over his dry tongue and throat.

As Dean pulled the cup away again Sam blinked up at him, tried clearing his throat, wincing at the soreness.

"How long?" he croaked, dreading the answer.

"Almost three days," Dean answered. "When we brought you in you were dehydrated, starving. It took awhile to just get enough fluid into your body to get things working again. It was touch and go for awhile there, buddy."

"Little Sam -- "

Dean's lips curved up and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled.

"He's fine," Dean said. "Bounced right back, good as new. Doesn't remember a thing about what happened, except you."

"Me?" Sam frowned.

Dean nodded. "The djinn gave him a lifetime of memories of you," he said. "He thinks you've been living with us for the past five years. Doesn't remember his mother at all. Which is a little sad, I guess, but I'm not complaining. Just grateful to have him back, is all."

Sam decided he could live with that, weird as it was.

"The djinn -- "

"You killed it, Sam," Dean said. "You and me and the girls are the only ones who know what it really was. When the cops got there all they found was an old drifter who'd had a heart attack after you stabbed him. I pulled some strings with my friends on the force, so there won't be any charges, no more investigation."

Then Dean leaned in so swiftly Sam didn't have time to react before his lips were pressed to Sam's, chaste and firm and with only the barest pressure before he pulled back.

"Thank you," Dean breathed, gratitude and something else shining in his green eyes.

Sam felt his eyes fill with tears, his hands itching with the need to reach up and pull Dean down on top of him, to kiss and kiss those soft lips and never ever stop.

But the sound of shuffling feet and someone coughing in the doorway intruded on his plans, made Dean pull away and stand up, turn so they could both see Beth and Chrissy in the doorway, smiling shyly.

And between them, holding Beth's hand, Little Sam was positively beaming at him.

"Uncle Sam!" the boy exclaimed, wiggling away from his aunt to throw himself across the room and straight onto the bed.

Sam oohfed out a breath, put his arms around the small body as he was hugged tightly, found himself grinning till his face hurt as Dean admonished the boy.

"Hold on there, Tiger. Be gentle. Uncle Sam's just woke up. He's still not feeling too good."

"It's ok," Sam laughed, hugging the boy as well as he could with the i.v. line getting in the way and his limbs not working as well as they should. "I'm suddenly feeling a lot better."

"I knew you'd be ok," Little Sam crowed. "Now we can go home, right?" He looked up at his dad expectantly, and Dean ruffled his hair.

"Sure, sport," he said fondly. "Pretty soon now."

Dean looked up and met Sam's eyes, and the hopeful look Sam read there made his chest ache.

But before he could speak, before he could answer Dean's unspoken question, Beth was there, bending down to kiss his cheek.

"Thanks, Sam," she said. "What you did -- all I can say is thank you." She drew back, squeezed his shoulder once, then turned to Dean and put her hand on his arm. "Be good to this guy," she told her brother. "He's a keeper."

Sam felt tears smarting in his eyes again, found he was too choked up to answer, managed to exchange a smile with Chrissy, who was standing back, watching the family while clearly fighting tears of her own.

* *  
When they were alone again and Sam had a chance to ask Dean what had happened, how it was that Sam had survived the djinn poison, Dean smirked and admitted he had administered the antidote himself.

"But that didn't make up for the fact that you had already nearly killed yourself," Dean admonished. "Your body was so run down and exhausted -- do you even remember the last time you ate or drank anything? Or had a decent night's sleep?"

Sam was sitting in the bedside chair, still so weak he couldn't do much more than get up to use the john -- with Dean's help -- but he was damned if he would spend one more minute in that damn hospital bed, strapped down with an i.v. and a damn catheter, for godssake.

"But I don't understand," Sam frowned. "Why did the djinn take Little Sam? And why give him dreams of me? It just doesn't make sense. Usually those things give you your fondest wish in some kind of elaborate fantasy, make you want to stay there so they can feed. Or else they give you nightmares and feed off your fear. How could I be Little Sam's fondest wish? He didn't even know me. It don't get it."

Dean shrugged. "Maybe the djinn isn't used to reading kids' minds. Maybe he read it wrong."

Sam stared, Dean's words giving him an idea. "Or maybe the djinn was reading your mind instead," he suggested, then blushed when he realized what he was saying.

Dean lowered his eyes, his cheeks reddening just enough for Sam to know he was thinking the same thing.

"Sam," Dean slid into the other chair, facing his brother so that his knees almost touched Sam's. "We need to talk."

Sam watched as Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, scrubbed a hand over his face before looking back up at Sam, wincing a little as he read the dread and apprehension there.

"I want you to know, I will always be grateful for what you did," Dean said, and Sam felt his stomach sink. "You saving my son's life -- it's not something I can ever repay."

Dean lowered his eyes, shifted nervously in his chair, and Sam couldn't take it another minute. Knew he had to do whatever it took to relieve Dean's discomfort. It just wasn't fair for him to suffer like this when it was all Sam's fault.

"It's ok, Dean," he said quietly. "I get it. You don't have to explain. And you don't owe me. I mean that."

Sam took a deep breath, forced himself to raise his eyes to Dean's. "I'll get out of here as soon as they release me. I won't bother you guys again. I promise."

"What?" Dean looked startled, eyes wide. "What are you talking about? You can't leave. We -- we need you, Sam. My son needs you. You're part of the family now. Beth would -- damn, she'd definitely kill me if I let you leave."

Sam felt relief flow through his veins, closed his eyes and took another deep breath.

"No -- that's not what I meant. Jesus." Dean shook his head, shifted again. "It's just -- I'm not sure how I feel about the whole brother thing. I mean, my brother's dead, man. And I have some memories of you but it's not -- there's nothing brotherly about my memories, dude."

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "It was pretty fucked up."

Dean frowned. "Are you sure about all that? You know for a fact we -- you and me -- and hunting -- all the stuff with ghosts and monsters -- "

Sam nodded. "Yeah, Dean, I'm sure. Everything I told you about growing up -- for me, the Impala was home. You and Dad were my family. He trained us to be hunters. It was what we did."

Dean shook his head. "Until I started having those dreams -- visions, whatever -- I didn't know any of that existed."

"I know," Sam breathed. "I'm sorry, Dean. I really am. If I could've kept all that out of your life I would have. I tried."

"The thing is," Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not good at this whole talking about feelings thing -- "

Sam nodded, waited patiently while Dean turned his head toward the window, seemed to gather his thoughts again.

"What I'm trying to say is, I didn't grow up with a brother. I had a little sister. I had a mom and a dad and I married my childhood sweetheart. So if you're telling me you're my brother --and I know you are; I can feel it in my bones -- but the thing is, I don't know you that way. As a brother, I mean. Hell, I barely know you at all."

Sam lowered his head, stared at his hands clasped in his lap, fidgeting restlessly.

"I know," he whispered. "I know, Dean. It's my fault. I -- I made a deal with somebody who changed reality so that you wouldn't know me. I forgot about the soul-mates thing, or I think you never would've known me at all."

Dean stared at him, but Sam couldn't return his gaze, feeling the shame burning in his chest, the sense of failure at not being able to do this one thing right -- this thing that could've saved his brother so much pain.

But Dean wasn't having it.

"Not know you?" he repeated incredulously. "You made a deal so I wouldn't know you at all? Do you have any idea how empty my life would be without you? Do you?"

Sam raised his eyes, stared back at his brother's intense, almost angry expression.

"You're a moron, Sam," Dean growled fiercely. "Do you even know what an idiot you are? I'm in love with you. You think if you erased yourself from my life that I could be happy? Without you?"

Sam's mouth dropped open, ready with an excuse, an apology. But then he realized what Dean had just said and all he could do was stare.

Then Sam shook his head, trying to clear it.

"You don't get it, Dean," he said. "These things -- supernatural things -- they know about you. That djinn -- that thing in your house six months ago -- the curse that killed your wife and your parents -- this stuff will keep coming for you. If I stay with you it'll only get worse. I'm putting you and Little Sam and Beth and Chrissy in danger, man. I can't -- I can't live with that."

"Ok, now you're a moron and a bastard," Dean pushed to his feet, crossed to the window, stared out with his back to Sam, and Sam watched his broad shoulders heave as Dean fought for control over his feelings.

Finally he turned, just enough so Sam could see his profile, still unable or unwilling to face Sam, who waited with baited breath and broken heart for his brother to grasp the reality he had just laid out for him, waited for him to accept it as he had.

"OK, here's the thing," Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck, his jaw clenched and angry. "Since you left six months ago, the djinn was the first supernatural thing that happened. So you stopped the thing in our house, whatever it was. You did that."

He raised his eyes, turned to face Sam again, clenched his fists before going on.

"And as for my folks and Emily, that was just bad luck, man. Coincidence. Maybe it was connected to the ghost thing, maybe it wasn't. But the fact is, the only supernatural thing in my life right now is you. You shouldn't even exist."

Dean moved quickly, suddenly got close, yanking the arms of Sam's chair and leaning down so he was right in Sam's face, grabbed his chin when Sam wouldn't meet his eyes, forced him to look up.

And when he did, what Sam saw was such raw emotion, such love and need and devotion, it took his breath away, started the waterworks.

"Did you hear what I said to you, Sam Colt or Sam Winchester or whoever the fuck you are? 'Cause I'm not good with the whole feelings thing, and I'm damned if I'm gonna repeat myself. You got me?"

Sam nodded, tears streaming down, unable to stop shaking with stupid, snotty sobbing.

Dean grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him up to standing so he could pull him into his arms, and Sam collapsed, giving in to Dean's warmth and solidity and security, to Dean's smell and strong arms and broad shoulders just holding his greater weight.

"God, you're just a giant bag of bones," Dean murmured against his ear, hands stroking up and down Sam's back. "Beth is gonna wanna cook for you for a month."

And Sam felt himself laughing through his sobs, almost hysterical with relief.

Until Dean's mouth found his and there was no more talking for awhile.

* * *  
When Dean brought Sam home the next day, Beth and Chrissy and Little Sam were there waiting. He got hugs all around, Little Sam crawling all over him begging for rides -- "Like we always do, Uncle Sam!" -- Beth putting plate after plate of food in front of him, the house full of the smells of good cooking, Chrissy smiling and smiling at him.

And Dean -- Dean with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe, watching him silently with a slight smile on his lips, wearing the most amazing henley that just accentuated his muscular chest and arms --

Finally, Beth seemed to realize Sam was getting tired, pulled Chrissy out the door, taking Little Sam with them so Sam could rest and he and Dean could be alone.

As she brushed her lips over his cheek, Beth whispered, "He thought about you all the time while you were gone. Don't let him pretend he didn't."

Sam smiled broadly as she released him, ducking his head shyly, and he could tell she was charmed as she squeezed his biceps and turned to her partner and Little Sam, ushering them out the door with promises of ice cream and playgrounds.

When they were alone Sam lifted his eyes to his brother's and recognized the expression of barely-concealed panic in them before Dean looked away, clearing his throat nervously.

"Beer?" he asked without looking at Sam.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, relieved.

"Maybe there's a game on," Dean suggested as he came back with the beers.

"Yeah," Sam agreed again, following Dean into the living room and into the chair that had once been their dad's.

There wasn't, so Dean flipped through the channels idly for a few minutes while Sam let himself drift off in the comfortable chair, smells of Dad and Dean and home all around.

* * *  
"Hey," Dean's deep voice startled him and Sam realized he had fallen asleep. The t.v. was off and Dean was standing in front of him, offering his hand. Sam took it without thinking and let Dean haul him to his feet.

"Must've been that last beer," Sam muttered, blinking sleepily.

"Come on," Dean smiled. "Let's get you to bed."

At the door to the guest room Dean paused.

"Bed's made. I'll get you some towels." He was looking down, away, but still holding Sam's hand, and when Sam tugged him closer Dean's eyes fluttered up to his face helplessly.

"Sam, I -- I'm not -- I don't -- "

"I know," Sam whispered as he leaned in for Dean's lips, cupping his face as he kissed him.

He felt Dean relax under his hands, press closer with a low moan, slip his arms around Sam and deepen the kiss.

Sam pushed him back against the door, kissing all resistance away, and Dean reached behind him for the doorknob, opened the door, let Sam walk him backwards into the guest room, let Sam kick the door shut behind them, still kissing.

When Dean tore his mouth away it was only to pull his shirt off over his head, slip his hands up under Sam's tee-shirt as Sam shrugged out of his flannel, then let Dean pull off the tee, spread his hands flat against Sam's bare chest.

"So many scars," Dean murmured as he caressed Sam's skin, rubbing his thumb over the old wounds one by one, green eyes wide.

Sam let him explore, let him learn Sam's body, his chest aching with sense memories.

"In my dreams you were always tan," Dean said with a dazed smile. "Your body was all muscles and tan skin. No scars."

Dean looked up from his mapping and met Sam's eyes. "What happened to you, Sam?"

Sam felt his eyes fill in the face of that direct gaze, squeezed them shut for a moment to keep the waterworks from starting.

"Been in a few fights, I guess," he shrugged.

"Yeah, I see that," Dean agreed, frown deepening.

"You sewed me up where I couldn't reach," Sam commented, twisting around so Dean could see the scars on his back.

Dean examined the skin there with gentle, expert fingers, muttering, "Not bad."

Sam tolerated his touch for another moment before twisting back around and catching Dean's wrists in his hands, placing them on his hips so he could take Dean's face in his hands again. Dean met his gaze reluctantly, still slightly dazed, hesitant.

"Missed you," Sam breathed, leaning in to press his lips to Dean's. Still missing you, he thought silently as he moved his hands down Dean's neck and shoulders, finding his skin smooth and unblemished, lacking the scars Sam remembered too well.

When Dean drew back the next time it was so they could undress completely, stare at each other some more. For Sam, it was like coming home, regaining the intimacy he had lost with the person he loved most. For Dean, it was all new, with the hazy memory of five years of visions contrasting with reality in strange and confusing ways.

"Hey, it's ok," Sam murmured encouragingly, moving in closer to let Dean feel his heat. "We can take it slow."

"I've never -- I don't -- " Dean's gaze flicked back up to Sam's face from its long examination of Sam's body. "Sam, I'm not gay."

"Shhh," Sam leaned in again, capturing Dean's mouth tenderly, kissing along his jaw to his ear as he pressed closer and Dean held on for dear life. "It's just us. Don't worry. Just us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this before "SPN: Bloodlines," so if there are any continuity errors with the djinn thing, that's why.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The epilogue in which loose ends are tied (hopefully)! Thank you for reading and hanging in there, y'all!

EPILOGUE:

It took Sam over a month to loosen up enough to start talking about his experiences in that other reality, partly out of fear that he might trigger Dean's memories and give him nightmares, or worse. But mostly because it terrified Sam to think that he might cause that reality to start bleeding into this one, just by talking about it. He knew of creatures that could be called into being that way, and he sure as hell didn't want to be the one to do that.

And of course, Dean being Dean, he was confident and cocky about his ability to deal with whatever came at them, convinced he could instill that confidence in Sam, and determined he would protect all of his loved ones from anything that threatened them.

Sam wasn't so sure, of course, knowing what he did about the way the supernatural world had fucked with them in the past. But as time went on and nothing evil crawled out from under their beds or closets, Sam began to relax. Just a little.

For the first few weeks Sam woke up every hour or so, then lay awake listening to Dean's breathing until he drifted off to sleep again, only to start awake, sometimes with a scream in his throat and a nightmare shattering his mind. He yawned through his days, unable to shake the tiredness from his bones.

Finally, after about six weeks or so, Sam slept almost four hours straight one night, waking up shocked and sweating with fear, so that Dean had to pull him close and just kiss him for awhile until he could relax again.

And slowly, as Sam loosened up and began to relax, he found he needed to talk, found to his surprise that this Dean was a pretty good listener. Most of their talks happened in the middle of the night during those first few months, usually precipitated by one of Sam's nightmares, his screams and thrashing waking them both, Sam coming to consciousness with Dean's strong arms around him, his deep voice murmuring softly.

And one night, almost two months after the incident with the djinn, Dean's persistence paid off, and Sam found himself revealing the whole story, as far as he understood it, about what he had done and why.

"So I was turning into a monster," Dean clarified. "And you were gonna have to kill me."

Sam nodded, tears running down his cheeks freely, soaking the pillow case.

"But instead you saved me, Sam," Dean reminded him. "You saved me, just like you say I saved you that one time. Remember?"

Sam nodded, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears.

Sam remembered. He also remembered lying together only a week before, telling Dean the story of how he had given his soul for Sam's life, watched the horror and fascination play across Dean's handsome face. That night he had woken screaming because he thought Dean was in hell again.

Dean was patient, understood PTSD because he had seen it so often, had suffered from a mild case of his own after returning from Afghanistan the second time after being in a particularly fierce firefight in which several of his unit had been killed. It was partly survivor's guilt, he told Sam. Feeling like a failure for not saving those men.

"But you saved me, Sam," he reminded Sam again. "You done good, brother. You can rest easy now. You can let yourself off the hook and learn to be just another regular guy, with a home and a family and a good life. You get me, Sam?"

And Sam nodded, let himself be held and stroked until he drifted off to sleep again.

And after that he began sleeping longer on a regular basis, began to lose the dark circles under his eyes and the sallow color in his skin.

He began eating better too. Beth's cooking helped -- she had them over at least twice a week, watching them fondly as they sat together on her couch, bodies pressed together from shoulder to knee, taking turns resting their hands on each other's thighs.

Beth was a revelation to Sam. He'd never imagined having another sibling, let alone one who cooked for him and cared for him the way Beth did. All the things Dean had done for him growing up, Beth did for both of them now. And when he helped her with the dishes one night while Dean and Little Sam were out in the yard throwing a ball around, she told him how happy she was that Dean had found Sam, how she had secretly always known he bat for the other team. He and Emily had had one of those marriages of convenience, she told Sam. It had never seemed quite right somehow, and despite his macho posturing, Beth had always been convinced Dean was gay.

Sam just shook his head, remembering Dean from his own reality, all the girlfriends, the hook-ups -- and he doubted what Beth was saying because he knew Dean had never been interested in men, but that was something he knew he could never say to her. Dean had been very clear to Sam about that. It wasn't lying to Beth not to tell her that they were siblings. It just wasn't. Now that Sam and Dean were together, Sam was as much a brother to Beth as he could ever be. Telling her they were related in another reality wouldn't make that any better.

Besides. She didn't even exist in Sam's reality. How could she be his sister?

It hurt Sam's head to think about, but he had to agree in the end. It wasn't like he'd grown up with Beth. Dean was the only brother he'd ever known, just like Dean was the only brother Beth had ever known. There was no sense in messing with that by trying to convince her that Sam was some supernatural manifestation of a sibling who had died before she was born. It was just pointless.

Sometimes Sam missed the brother he had known growing up. He missed having that shared past with Dean, those memories of their life on the road, the early days with their dad. Sometimes he slipped up, found some memory jog loose that made him smile, made him turn to Dean out of habit and say "Remember when -- " only to register Dean's blank smile and shake his head, mutter "Never mind."

Sometimes Dean understood what was happening in those moments, put his arm around Sam or lightly punched his arm and bumped his hip against Sam's.

"You know, maybe we didn't grow up together, but you are as familiar to me as the back of my hand," he'd say in those moments, which always made Sam grin through his grief. Dean reminded him at those times that they were together because they had chosen each other, not because of some shared tragic past they couldn't escape.

And it made Sam sad, but he had to agree.

Because given the alternatives -- Dean consumed by the Mark of Cain, or Sam living out his life in solitude (and they both knew how that would end -- had, in fact, almost ended) -- Sam felt pretty lucky. It scared him sometimes how lucky he was, in fact, made him paranoid and withdrawn for awhile, so that Dean had to hold him down and tickle him to get him to lighten up. And that always ended up leading to other, even more pleasant things that made Sam feel even luckier.

So he got used to missing the brother he grew up with, and over time as he and Dean built new memories together, the memories of their old life stopped packing so much emotional punch. He stopped having nightmares so often, stopped waking in a cold sweat, breathing hard and sure that something was coming for them until Dean's calm, deep voice and firm touch pushed back the terror and soothed him to sleep again.

Then there was the fact that Dean didn't remember the past ten years the way Sam did. He didn't know how badly Sam had failed his brother, over and over, how Sam had been a monster, pumped full of demon blood, vessel for Lucifer, soulless killer. And even Sam's shame-filled, sobbing confessions in the middle of the night couldn't erase the guilt for all the bad things he had done.

Yet no matter how he tried to tell that to Dean, his brother wasn't having it.

Because here and now, with this kind-hearted, generous man and his loving family, Sam was being given a fresh start that he knew he didn't deserve.

"Doesn't matter, Sam," Dean kept saying whenever Sam hit one of his low times, whenever Sam gave Dean another earful of his sins, trying to convince his brother he wasn't good, wasn't worthy.

Other times Dean pushed him backwards on the bed and straddled him, pinning him down in a way that Sam knew he could probably defeat, kissed him breathless until Sam's chest eased and he was able to kiss back again, could just let himself be loved as Dean seemed determined to do, no matter what he'd done, no matter what kind of monster he'd been before.

And in fact, the crazy thing was, there didn't seem to be anything Sam could say that would convince Dean he didn't deserve to be loved, didn't deserve Dean's love. And once Dean understood the extent of Sam's sacrifice -- all that Sam had given up and tried to give up so that Dean could have his well-adjusted life and happy childhood -- well, that only made Dean love him more, if that was possible.

Because it wasn't just Dean who had been saved by Sam's choice. When Sam asked about their dad, Dean filled his head with happy memories of John Winchester and his beautiful, happy wife Mary, stories that Sam drank in like water in a parched land, recognizing John's voice in Dean's re-telling, spending hours gazing at pictures in photo albums carefully and lovingly compiled by Mary Winchester. Years and years of normal, happy family life absorbed Sam's senses as he studied the pictures -- Dean graduating from high school, proud parents and sister at his side -- Dean's Little League team, his high school prom, performing with his guitar for a middle-school talent show. Family birthday parties and picnics and barbecues and camping trips. John laughing, Mary laughing, Beth and Dean swimming in a lake as children. Dean in his Boy Scout uniform, his junior ROTC uniform, playing soccer and baseball. Dean and Emily dancing, dressed up for their senior prom, looking happy if uncomfortable in their wedding clothes. Baby Sam, looking just like his namesake as a baby, Emily holding him and smiling tiredly into the camera from a hospital bed.

Sam even found the old, faded picture of four-year-old Dean holding baby Sam, the same picture he had back at the bunker. He studied that one for awhile, haunted by his own death, the moment of divergence between the two realities almost palpable. It seemed arbitrary, his being born in this reality. But maybe that had to happen, maybe that baby and his short life was the catalyst for all the rest of it. Certainly, if it hadn't been for that little ghost, Sam himself might be really dead and gone by now. Yet instead, here he was, forging a new life with this Dean-who-was-not-his-brother, having this chance to redeem himself.

It was a gift. Almost a miracle, in fact, Sam admitted to himself finally, shocked to find out he hadn't lost his faith after all.

After about six months Sam finally decided to settle, applied as a non-traditional student at the university, and went back to school. His lack of past school records presented a bit of a challenge at first, but Sam's experience forging documents came in handy, and he didn't really need to study very hard to ace pretty much any entrance exam. And Dean's pride in Sam's scholarly abilities was definitely worth the effort it took to reclaim Sam's past academic successes.

And being a dad to Little Sam was a revelation. Because the boy really loved him, really seemed to think he'd always been there, which was just so weird and wonderful Sam didn't want to think about it too hard. It was like he had traded his childhood for Little Sam's somehow. And now the little guy -- who began to look more and more like Sam as he grew, although Dean couldn't know that -- someday Little Sam would look just like Big Sam and everyone would assume he was Sam's son. He was having this perfectly happy childhood that was totally making up for the broken mixed up childhood that Sam had had, and that was just too much to have asked for.

Another win, Sam decided.

* * *

After a year had passed without further supernatural activity, Sam decided it was safe to return to the bunker, just to check on things there. Dean insisted on coming with him, and Sam allowed that reluctantly because he had made a promise that he wasn't gonna lie to Dean, wouldn't hide anything from him, ever again. He had this superstitious idea that if he could just avoid ever doing that, no matter how difficult it might be, if he could always be honest with Dean, maybe that would prevent anything bad happening again.

He didn't quite believe that, but so far it seemed to be working, so he held to that one bit of superstitious faith just on the off-chance it was true.

Sam was apprehensive about Dean's visit to the bunker because he worried it might stir memories. Dean's visions had completely stopped after Sam entered his life, but that didn't mean they couldn't start again. Or that whatever had triggered them in the first place -- soul-mate lore aside -- might lurk in one of the places Sam and Dean had shared in that other reality.

The bunker was just the same, maybe a little dustier. Sam actually breathed a sigh of relief, realized he half-believed it might have magically vanished. But there it was, a solid, tangible reminder that the supernatural world existed, that Sam hadn't simply dreamed the last thirty years of his life.

Because yes, it had occurred to him that this reality might be a dream conjured by the djinn and that he was really lying wasting away in some dark abandoned building somewhere.

And that still might be true, but after a year in this reality, Sam knew he could never willingly leave it, would certainly never willingly return to the other reality, the one where Dean was sick and becoming more monstrous and terrifying by the minute. Sam had made his choice, and now he was determined to live in it.

Because really, watching his brother's profile as they drove back to Lawrence, watching the sunlight on his hair and the laugh lines around his eyes crinkle as he glanced at Sam, listening to his deep voice sing along with the radio and feeling his warm hand resting on Sam's thigh -- this was it. Heaven on earth. Nothing could be better.

Nothing.

"Thank you, Gabriel," Sam prayed silently.

And somewhere a little voice in the back of his mind snarked, "You're fuckin' welcome, you big idiot."


End file.
